


Morning Glories

by Alexander_L



Series: You and I and the stories we tell – A collection of Ferdinand/Hubert oneshots [10]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Light Angst, M/M, POV Hubert von Vestra, Post-Black Eagles Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Soft Ferdinand von Aegir, Soft Hubert von Vestra
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-20
Updated: 2020-06-20
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:40:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24813979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alexander_L/pseuds/Alexander_L
Summary: After settling down in Aegir manor, Ferdinand struggles to feel free of his past. Hubert is determined to help, even if it means burning down Aegir manor to the ground.
Relationships: Ferdinand von Aegir/Hubert von Vestra
Series: You and I and the stories we tell – A collection of Ferdinand/Hubert oneshots [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1794589
Comments: 16
Kudos: 86





	Morning Glories

###  **Hubert**

“Goodness gracious,” I say as Ferdinand proudly holds up a large herring, still dripping wet from the nearby river.

He grins and exclaims, “Is it not magnificent?”

“Yes, it is a fine fish. Now get out of here! You are tracking mud all over the kitchen floor, you heedless rube.”

Wilting a bit under my chastisement, he sets the herring down on the countertop and withdraws. After a few minutes, whilst I am still preparing the fish, he returns in fresh clothes and sets to work mopping up the mess his swampy boots left behind.

It is his home, so I do not have the right to lecture him upon his care of it. But I cannot shake the feeling that we are guests here. Up until a few years ago, this house belonged to Duke Aegir and Ferdinand spent as little time here as possible in an effort to avoid his father’s constant scrutiny and ridicule. How I hated that man… Being here in his house has my nerves set on edge, no matter how many times I tell myself that I am being irrational and it is but a building that once belonged to someone else and now belongs to us – well, to Ferdinand. But I think it likely I will haunt its halls often enough that I shall have to think of it as home.

To an outside observer, it would doubtless appear that Ferdinand feels no hint of the shadow that hangs over the place and is even overjoyed to be back in his ancestral home. But I can see the strain behind his smile and the way his voice grows a little too loud and his movements a little too energetic. When one searches for signs of sorrow or pain in Ferdinand, one must look for symptoms that would normally be considered antithetical to such distress. He is as experienced at putting on a brave, brilliant smile to hide his thoughts as I am with doing the exact opposite.

When he is done mopping, he comes over behind me and wraps his arms around my waist, tucking his chin on my shoulder while he watches me mix together the spices for the fillets.

“How may I be of help?” he asks and presses a soft kiss to my neck.

“You are currently performing an important task and I have no wish to distract you from it,” I reply.

“Oh?” he says and kisses my neck more intently, stepping closer so his body is pressed against mine.

I smile and continue working, enjoying both the feeling of his lips exploring my skin and the challenge of ignoring it enough to focus on what I am doing. When I show no signs of distraction and carry on cooking without concern, I can sense Ferdinand’s competitive streak rising up stubbornly.

As soon as I have the spice-coated fillets simmering in the pan, he grows more aggressive, catching my earlobe in his teeth and biting it hard enough to hurt. Meanwhile he tucks one arm so firmly around my waist that I have no hope of escape beyond a warp spell. His other hand wanders downwards and his palm slides across the front of my trousers, causing me to stiffen.

“Damn you,” I murmur. “Do you want me to burn our dinner?”

“Am I distracting you?” he says, his tone taken aback as if he was innocently unaware of the effect he is having on me.

I turn the fillets to sauté on the other side and try to tug out of his arms, but he keeps me pinned against him.

“I take it back. You are a nuisance,” I tell him.

He laughs and finally releases me, setting to work laying out plates and utensils for our meal. As he puts together a quick salad of the fresh greens from the garden, I finish frying the fish and place two of the fillets on a plate, bringing them over to the table.

It is made for a large family, built out of ornately carved mahogany, at least six feet long and laid out with crisp, white lace-trimmed linens. It is utterly absurd for two people to use for a simple country dinner such as this.

“Would you like to take our food outside?” I ask him and he nods with a relieved expression.

There is a little porch outside the kitchen that, unlike the marble portico at the front of the manor, is not an ostentatious eyesore but rather a simple construction of timber and nails, adorned with pots of herbs and a pillow-strewn wicker sofa. It was presumably for the servants’ use, not for guests or family members, but since we do not have any servants in our employ at the moment other than a gardener, we have taken to occupying these simpler spaces ourselves.

Settling down on the cushions and looking out over the twilit vegetable garden, we eat in silence for several moments, interrupted only by Ferdinand’s occasional compliment on the food or idle comment on how the squash plants are growing in to which I need merely nod quietly in reply.

When the meal is done and we set our plates to the side, I pull him into my lap and nestle my face into the crook of his neck, kissing his slightly sunburned skin.

He combs his fingers through my hair and says, “I believe I shall replant the morning glories on the eastern trellises to grow up around the columns on the portico. If I cannot afford the expense of tearing them down, I can at least try to cover them up with something green and growing. Perhaps it will make the front of the house look less like a mausoleum.”

“We have a council meeting at seven,” I remind him.

“I am aware. I will have them planted before six,” he says. “And if I get up early, I will have time to pop by the smithy and see about having the tools in the workshed sharpened. If I can get that big axe mended, I can start work on felling some trees to build a small barn out back for Litha. I hate the idea of her being kept in that great, empty stable miles away. It is drafty and lonely and she will be much happier being close by. And then she can help with hauling the-”

“Ferdinand,” I interrupt, pulling back to look him in the eyes. “You are overdoing it.”

“What? No, I am just trying to stay abreast of all the projects that must be accomplished. There is so much to do!”

“Then hire someone. You and I spend at least nine or ten hours a day at the palace working and still you insist on putting in another five or six hours of labor here doing trivial things that you could hire a handyman to do. I did not question your manic need to stay busy at first, but it is getting out of hand now. This is the first hour we have spent together in days other than you collapsing into bed every night exhausted and hardly able to speak. And yet you are fidgety and restless, as if you wish to leave and go fuss over strawberries instead.”

“There is a pest of some kind getting at the strawberries! I must-” he starts then a little self-awareness makes him pause. “I am sorry, Hubert. I have been neglecting you. That is unlike me.”

“It is. I do not need your attention; I am perfectly sufficient without it. But I am worried about behaviors that are out of character for you, thus your avoidance of me as of late is a cause of concern.”

For a long moment he makes no reply. Wrapping his arms around my neck, he rests his forehead against mine and sighs. Then he says, “I want to tear this place apart and build a small cottage from the timbers. But I understand how irresponsible that would be and that I cannot disgrace the position of Prime Minister by destroying valuable property for no other reason than to spite bad memories.”

“We could sell or let out the house,” I suggest.

“Von Aegirs have lived here for centuries. It would be improper to abandon the place.” He sighs and promises, “I will sort myself out and return to normal. Thank you for bringing my behavior to my attention.”

There is a time when any comment on his behavior would have been met with fierce argument and justification. I am struck with how remarkably the nature of our communications have changed. Ferdinand will still choose a hill to die on and defend it to the last breath of an argument sometimes, but he is far humbler than he used to be. In return, I am endeavoring to be less critical. It is a pleasant balance we are learning to maintain.

The grave expression on Ferdinand’s face is replaced by a smile and he turns to straddle me, tipping my chin up to kiss me. As he pulls back after a minute, he whispers, “I am all yours tonight, my dear. What would you like to do?”

I cannot help the wry smile that my lips betray as I answer solemnly, “I have a whole list. If you accompany me to the bedroom, I will fetch it so you can consult with me on the matter and help me choose the best course of action.”

“My wise counsel is always at your disposal,” he replies.

Despite the understatedness of the proposition, it is a rushed, rather frenzied journey to the bedroom and by the time we reach it, the hall is littered with our clothes and the last few items end up hastily strewn to the side of the bed, to be picked up and folded later after more important matters have been attended to.

It is with great satisfaction that hours later I watch Ferdinand sprawl out across the bed, stretching and yawning blearily, this time not from working himself to the bone on trifling projects but from a much-needed, if exhausting, evening of intimacy.

He murmurs a goodnight and is soon asleep. Blowing out the candles on the nightstand, I climb under sheets and drift off to sleep beside him, my body tired and sore, but my mind feeling calmer and my heart happier than it has been in quite some time.

Some instinct wakes me in the night and I bolt up, snapping a flame to my fingers to illuminate the room. Ferdinand is gone and as I glance at the clock, I see that it is only half past four in the morning.

I have a long day ahead of me, with many complicated matters that will demand not only energy but also mental acuity. I should roll over and get the last few hours of sleep I will need to be rested. But worry propels me out of bed and I tug on the wrinkled shirt and trousers thrown so carelessly aside last night.

Keeping a small sphere of dark magic clenched in my hand lest I meet with trouble, I slip through the halls of the house, checking each room for either Ferdinand or for signs of danger that my instincts might have been warning me about. When I come to the vestibule, I see light out on the portico and I relax, withdrawing my magic.

I murmur a curse and rub my forehead, lamenting the headache that is already starting to pound behind my eyes. Taking a detour to the kitchen, I brew a strong pot of coffee and a pot of Almyran pine tea. I down the first cup of coffee like a shot of liquor, then grimace and shake my head to clear it. After I pour a second cup for myself and a cup of tea for Ferdinand, I carry the tray over to the vestibule. 

When I open the front door and step out onto the portico, he looks up at me sharply and, in the light of the lanterns scattered around him, I see distress flash across his expression. He pulls his hands out of the flower pot he is packing with soil and brushes them on his work breeches. 

“What are you doing awake?” he asks.

“Bringing you your morning tea, since you insist on starting your mornings at this unholy hour,” I reply, setting the tray down on the marble floor next to him.

I sit down cross-legged and pick up my coffee, regarding him with the examining stare I know will get him to talk.

“I could not sleep,” he says guiltily.

“According to my estimates, you have gotten less than twelve hours of sleep in the past seventy-two hours.”

“At least thirteen or fourteen,” he argues.

I raise my eyebrows and take a sip of my coffee.

“Do not look at me like that,” he sighs.

“Ferdinand-”

“I know. ‘Cease this irrational behavior or you will be of no use to anyone.’ I know…”

“That is not at all what I was going to say,” I reply. “I was going to ask if we should just tear this down ourselves and be done with it.” I get up and stroll over to the edge of the portico, staring up at the gaudy columns while Ferdinand watches me in astonishment. “Yes, I believe a good Thoron spell to that support there and a few Meteor blasts to the columns and I could bring the whole thing crashing down. It would undoubtedly do some damage to the anterior of the house, but nothing that cannot be repaired.” I glance over at him and add, “Or I could just burn the whole house to the ground.”

“We cannot just…”

“Rid ourselves of the past? Is that not exactly what we fought for all this time? Freedom?”

“It would be a waste,” he says numbly, gazing up at the towering awning. 

“Then what do you propose we do?” I ask, a little more sharply than I intend to. “I will not stand for another month of watching you drive yourself out of your mind to try to fix things that cannot be solved through potted plants and new coats of paint!”

He looks at me with wide eyes, holding his cup of tea an inch from his lips, and I walk over to kneel across from him. Taking the teacup from him and setting it aside, I pick up his hands and hold onto them tightly, despite how dirty they are.

“I would rather burn down Aegir manor than watch you be unhappy.”

“It is not the fault of the house. The problem exists only in my mind,” he says. “Being here… I feel like a child again. All I can think about is my family, of how my father’s actions led to the suffering of Edelgard and countless others. And worst of all, how I was so blindly unaware and powerless to stop him. I have spent nearly a decade now working to create a new identity for myself and a new understanding of the world than the one he tried to instill in me. It is difficult to remember who that new Ferdinand is when every room of this house is filled with memories of the old.” He sighs and raises one of my hands to kiss my fingers. “This is a problem that arson will not solve. I am sorry, my dear.”

“What a pity.”

“Indeed.”

“If you refuse to burn down the house and you don’t want to get rid of the property but living here brings you pain, then there is only one solution,” I say.

“What is it?” he asks, pulling his hands out of mine so he can pick up his teacup again and take a drink.

“We are going to give it to Dorothea.”

He blinks in confusion. “We are going to what?”

“Lady Edelgard has been encouraging her to open up the music academy she has been dreaming about. Well, now we have an excellent piece of real estate for her. I trust it will make Lady Edelgard as happy as it will Dorothea. It would be a disgrace to your reputation to abandon your ancestral home, but donating its use to an academy will make you a patron of the arts, loved and respected by your community.”

“Where shall we live?” he asks.

“We will find somewhere simple and close to the palace. Less travel to and from the palace will mean more time to ourselves. Maybe you can finally catch up on your reading list and maybe I can get a full night’s sleep without waking up to you potting morning glories before dawn.”

Ferdinand stares down into his teacup with a stunned look, turning the idea over in his mind.

“Hubert,” he says at last and I am not sure if it is a question or a very pointless statement.

“Yes?”

He looks up at me, his brow furrowed earnestly. “Hubert, I do not deserve you. All these weeks, I have been going mad and never once did such an idea occur to me. You are a genius!”

I scoff. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“I am not being dramatic!” he insists. “You just refuse to ever take a compliment.”

Downing the rest of my coffee, I pack our cups onto the tray and say, “Come inside.”

“But the flowers. They-”

“-can wait for later,” I finish.

He nods and follows me back to the kitchen where he washes the dirt from his hands. When he is done, he grabs me and kisses me with such enthusiasm it makes my head spin, tired and sleep-deprived as I am. I break away after a minute and take a step back, resting one hand on his shoulder and cupping his cheek with the other.

I want to tell him that seeing him happy means the world to me, that along with all the ambitions I strive to pursue, his well-being is at the top of the list. But I can’t find a way to put the thought into words without it sounding trite or overly sentimental. So I settle for saying, “Do you think you can come back to bed and get another hour of sleep with me?”

“If sleep was your aim, why did we already have our tea and coffee?” he asks.

“Just come,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him after me.

When we return to the bedroom and strip off our dirty clothes to climb back under the cold sheets, he curls up in my arms and kisses me, slowly and deeply. 

“I love you,” he whispers against my lips.

“And I you.”

He lies back against the pillow and stares up at the ceiling and I can practically see the thoughts racing through his hyper mind.

I sigh and ask, “Are you already decorating this hypothetical city flat?”

“Of course not! That would be far too presumptuous,” he says, then adds sheepishly, “First I have to settle on paint colors for the walls.”

I swear under my breath and pull him back into my arms. “Sleep or I will poison you.”

“Is that why you brought me tea? Will I fall instantly asleep in a quarter of an hour or simply be struck dead?”

“Neither. But don’t test my patience.”

He smiles at me – not a nervous manic smile, but a soft, genuine one – and says, “I live to test your patience, Hubert. It is my favorite hobby and I am thrilled that I will have more time on my hands to devote to it in this new life of ours.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hey there! Is there any soft Ferdibert scenes you'd like to read? I'm happy to fill any requests if it fits within something I think I can write well. Writing these soft oneshots brings me a lot of joy. I hope it does you too to read them! If there's something you want to see - angst with a happy ending, soft domestic things, even smut (ive kept it T so far, but I'm happy to go up to M or E) - go ahead and let me know in the comments or hit me up on Twitter at @lalexanderwrite


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